The Taliban Cricket Club (22 page)

The Visitors

I
CLOSED AND LOCKED THE DOOR
. T
HE SILENCE
hummed in my ears as I strained to hear any sounds.

Wahidi was out there, he had come for me. I gave into fear and collapsed on the divan, curling tightly into a ball. In such darkness, my imagination soared out of the hiding place, seeing Jahan defying the commander, and the men dragging him away to Pul-e-Charkhi, where other men waited to violate him.

I uncurled and sat up. What if he decided to shoot Jahan?

His death would kill Mother more certainly than the cancer. I knew what I would do then: I would lock all the doors, bar all the windows and close the curtains, slide shut the bolt of my room door, perform a final
namaaz,
and die quietly.

J
AHAN TOLD ME LATER
what had happened.

Abdul had awakened finally at the incessant bangs and shouts. Jahan heard him call out, “What is happening?”

“Open the gate, you stupid man.”

“What do you want?” Abdul told them. “Look at the time. Come back later.”

“I'll shoot you if you don't open the gate,” the policeman shouted.

“So shoot. I'm an old man and my time will come sooner or later. I must ask my master whether to open it or not.”

“You're a dead man.”

“Open the gate, Abdul,” Jahan called out to him, saving him from a bullet.

Taking his time, Abdul pulled back the three bolts—the bottom, the middle, and finally the top—that secured the small gate, while the policeman cursed him for being so slow. He pushed the gate, sending Abdul back, tripping, and stalked into the compound followed by two more policemen. They all had torches. Droon entered behind them.

“Next time, I will shoot.”

“Next time, I'll probably be dead already,” Abdul said.

They ran up the steps to the door, shining their torches in Jahan's face, and he had to shield his eyes. He thought they looked like the same policemen as before, but he wasn't sure.

“What do you want?” Jahan asked.

“You know what we want,” Droon said, remaining by the gate. “Tell him.”

“We're here to take Rukhsana, daughter of Gulab, for questioning,” the policeman said.

“On what charges?” Jahan asked in his most authoritative voice.

The policeman giggled. “We'll think of them later.”

“She's not here. She's visiting our uncle in Mazar-e-Sharif.”

“Search the house,” Droon ordered.

“We will search,” the policeman said brusquely and pushed past Jahan.

“My mother is sleeping. You mustn't disturb her.”

“We'll see her.”

He first took them to Mother's room and permitted only one to enter.

“Not in her face,” he ordered. “It will waken her.” And the torch shone respectfully on the ceiling, throwing enough light on Mother to see her. He followed them into my room and the torches lit up a neat bed with plumped pillows awaiting a tired head. They went from room to room, slashing at the darkness, and then down to the basement. They opened Grandfather's storeroom and ran their light across the dusty books before shutting the door. They remembered the cellar and heaved up the slab then closed it.

When they went out, Droon was waiting. “Where is she?” he asked Jahan. He looked as if he wanted to strangle him, but he stopped himself. Jahan said that was very scary. I suppose he was thinking he couldn't kill his future brother-in-law. “My brother, the minister, has written to me asking about the progress on his marriage proposal. He is getting impatient and so am I.”

“I told you, she's in Mazar-e-Sharif,” Jahan said.

“Like a child repeating a lesson,” Droon mocked him. “As her
maadar
is not well, why would she be so far away? She must be in the city, staying with cousins. Tell me their names.”

“Which ones? We have a hundred and five here,” Jahan said, exaggerating. “I'm happy to give you a list, but you won't find her with any of them.”

“I'll find her. Don't forget Pul-e-Charkhi.”

Droon signaled the police and they followed him out to the Land Cruiser and he got in. Abdul and Jahan waited in silence until the engines had faded into the darkness; they remained waiting, believing the police and Droon could circle back again, before it would be safe for me to come up from my hiding place.

When Jahan finished telling me what had happened, he sat beside me on the divan in the pitch blackness.

“You'll have to stay in this room,” he said. “You can't move around, except when it's dark, and even then be ready to run here.”

I remembered Noorzia's advice: defy them in your heart and mind. “No. I won't be locked in this room all day. I'll stay in the house and creep around like a mouse, but I must be able to look after Maadar. I'll only leave here the day before the first match, just to make sure you're ready.”

“What should I tell them when you don't come with me?”

“I sprained my ankle,” I said shortly, frustrated and angry at being frightened by Droon.

“And don't take off your beard or turban when you do move,” Jahan said and left me to my perpetual night. Unlike the Russian police, Droon did not believe that night brought the most fear. He preferred the early dawn, while a man still slept, lost in his dreams, believing he was safe. To awaken the sleeper suddenly disoriented him or her, frightened him, and that was the time when he yielded his secrets.

T
HE NEXT DAY WE
didn't whisper a word about the night's invasion to Mother. She had slept, heavily sedated, and the torchlight hadn't disturbed her. I hovered like a frightened wraith in her room, ready to sprint downstairs at the slightest sound on the street. A cyclist's bell, a car's horn, or a raised voice and I was four steps down to the basement. I was angry that Droon made me tremble with such fear, but I was helpless to stop the shaking. I avoided the windows as I moved around. We told Abdul to lock the gates and we locked our doors. If Droon returned to break in, I would have time to hide, I hoped. Jahan was as free as ever and went off to the university grounds. After practice, he went to the homes of our cousins, borrowing the money I needed to escape. Parwaaze and Qubad's family gave the most, 150 dollars each; the others, needier, gave what they could to help us. By Wednesday the nineteenth, three days before the preliminary matches, we had a total of nine hundred dollars, enough for Juniad to run me over the border. Friday night would be my last in my childhood home, and my uncertain future hung over me like an executioner's sword. I knew no one in Pakistan to give me shelter and comfort; I would wander from place to place, waiting for Jahan, waiting for someone to help me. I could register as a refugee and end up in a crowded camp, a single woman, and vulnerable, among the many families. I'd eat what charity gave me and drink the contaminated water and live in my unwashed clothes for months, maybe years, until the Taliban were driven out and I could return home. But I didn't see them loosening their vicious grip on the country for many years.

The day passed in this panic-filled way. I listened for the telephone. It didn't sound all day. The servant had probably forgotten to give the message to Veer and I was too depressed to try again. Jahan and I carried the dinner I'd cooked into Mother's room. We followed the rituals of custom and Jahan and I lied about our day, telling her about cricket, shopping, books I read to pass the time. We didn't tell her I'd spent the whole day at home. The lantern cast only a small yellow halo of light around us as we ate. Above and beyond it, such a frail flame could not lift the weight of the darkness. At least it was steady in this closed room and shadows didn't leap and dance menacingly around us.

That night I lay in the secret room, in stifling heat and stale air, trying to sleep. The door was slightly ajar, near enough for me to reach out and shut it quickly, but that didn't help the air circulation. I didn't want to sleep, as I'd be tormented by nightmares, and I tossed and turned. I must have dozed off, because I woke with a start. The early sun was a pale glow in my cell.

My calendar was up in my bedroom, and after breakfast I ran up and drew a line through another day. Thursday. Only three days were left and there was nothing I could do to stop their advance.

When Jahan left he closed the front door firmly; the sound echoed and masked another one coming from deeper inside the house. I was halfway down to the basement. At first, I couldn't place it. As I listened, I realized it was our phone, ringing urgently again. I ran up, opened the door to Father's study—the gloom pervaded here too—and groped my way to his desk.

I lifted the receiver, and remained silent, waiting for the voice of a stranger.

“Rukhsana,” the voice said.

“Yes . . .” Just from the utterance of my name, that one word, I knew who it was and my breath caught. I couldn't believe it. “Veer!” It felt so wonderful to say his name. “Veer . . . ,” I repeated, as stupid as a parrot with a one-word vocabulary, too astonished by the miracle of hearing his voice over this deceitful instrument.

“Jesus, I've tried this number a hundred times and could never get through.” There was a new American inflection in his accent. He hurried on, “You called the house in Delhi, and it was just luck that I got home this morning. Mohan told me a Kabul memsahib had called. God, it's wonderful to hear your voice. It was like getting my first letter from you. I have a big smile on my face.”

I had to smile. I'd only said, “Veer.”

“To hear you say my name sounds to me like a whole poem.”

“You didn't reply to my last letter.”

“I have it on me, ready to post. I was stuck down in the Amazon for eight weeks.” I heard his familiar laughter. “I swear I've been trying this number over the years and can never get through. And when I do I'm disconnected.”

“Veer . . . Veer . . . ” I gathered my strength. “I don't believe I'm talking to you. Your voice sounds exactly as I remembered.”

“How are you? Are you okay? I want to see you.”

I hesitated, too long, as it was a question with a very long answer, and I wasn't sure we would have the time.

“Rukhsana, you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here, Veer. I'm . . . I'm okay.”

“You don't sound okay. Tell me what's wrong, please, before we get disconnected. I love you, and I've never stopped loving you.”

“Oh, Veer, you don't know how just hearing that makes me feel so happy,” I managed to say and began crying. I couldn't help it. Veer was there, yet out of reach, and couldn't hold me and comfort me. “I love you so much.”

“I can hear you crying. I have to see you, Rukhsana. I'll come over.”

“No, don't. Please don't. It's very dangerous. Promise me you won't. I couldn't bear it.”

“You should know by now that I never make a promise. And don't forget that I've been there. It must be dangerous for you too. But it can't be worse than some of the jungles I've been in.”

“At least there are laws in the jungle. And animals don't carry guns and rocket launchers.”

“I have to see you. I know something's wrong.”

“Veer, I can't see you. You can't see me. It's against the law, and they'll execute us if we're caught together. Promise me you won't come; it will place me in danger.” What was I saying? I was already in danger, but I couldn't place his life in jeopardy. We would die together if he came, a small comfort, but even for love, it wasn't worth it.

“Rukhsana, my love, is there anything at all I can do to help you?”

Perversely, how does one test love? Ask for the impossible, and watch love shrivel into a dried flower, a decayed memory, a mumbled apology, and disconnection. Would he be another Shaheen?

“You can always say no, and I will understand,” I said, speaking gently. “I need two thousand dollars to get out of the country.”

“You got it,” he said without a second's hesitation, as if he had been waiting all along for my test. “I doubt your banks work. I'll send you the money through the
hawala
. It'll reach you in two or three days.”

“Thank you, Veer,” I said, and I felt the tears trickle down my cheeks. “Thank you. We are desperate. Promise me, you mustn't come here. When we get out I'll find my way to you in Delhi.” The phone began to hiss in impatience. “Very soon. I love you . . .”

“Rukhsana, I—”

And the connection broke.

Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

I tenderly replaced the receiver and stood still in the darkness. I smiled, I laughed aloud in the empty room with no one to hear my joy. And then, I wept and wept in relief. I couldn't stop and the pain bent me over. Finally, when I had no more tears left, I went to the kitchen to wash my face and prepare lunch.

Jahan returned home in the evening and saw the smile still on my face.

“You're looking happy. What's happened?”

How would I explain the money to Jahan? Should I lie? I was getting too practiced in the art of deception. I was bubbling over with the good news, the promissory note of love, the promise of the funds that would whisk me out of the country. He would have immediately become suspicious—why would a total stranger (to him) bestow the money upon us? What had I done with him that he could be so generous? Was he a lover? Had I betrayed Shaheen in Delhi and slept with this man? Why else would a man give a woman money if it wasn't in exchange for sexual favors? Men and women could never just be friends. His sense of honor could rise like a serpent and strike me down. I remembered Noorzia's warning—brothers, husbands, and fathers could be more dangerous than strangers. Sibling, marital, and filial ties were no protection against the vindictive power of despoiled honor. I thought for a long moment.